


Laughing Dean

by Evil_Knitter (Nichneven13)



Series: -Ing Dean Series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-21
Updated: 2014-11-21
Packaged: 2018-02-26 12:51:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2652653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nichneven13/pseuds/Evil_Knitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s very little that makes Dean Winchester laugh. If he thinks about it, he can come up with a list: The dramatic chipmunk. Basement cat and his assorted hijinks. A good farmer’s daughter joke. And elephant shrews.</p><p>And now, thanks to a little angel intervention, he has something to add to that list.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Laughing Dean

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted to LiveJournal.

There’s very little that makes Dean Winchester laugh. If he thinks about it, he can come up with a list: The dramatic chipmunk. Basement cat and his assorted hijinks. A good farmer’s daughter joke. And elephant shrews.

And now, thanks to a little angel intervention, he has something to add to that list. 

“Okay,” Sam said as he leaned forward to brace his hands against his knees. He swung his head between Cas and Chuck. “We can do this.”

“I’m not so sure, Sam,” Chuck said with a green tint to his cheeks. He peered around Sam to eye Dean, Gabriel and Bobby warily.

“I believe our team is at a disadvantage,” Cas said in his slightly bemused voice. “Neither Chuck nor I know the rules, whereas the rest of you do.”

“Yeah,” Sam snorted and threw his own look—of the disgruntled variety—over his shoulder at his brother. “Luck of the draw, I guess. But hey, we have an angel and a prophet; we should be fine. Here’s the plan.”

“I’m planning on running very fast,” Chuck said, jerking his head to the side. “That way. Hope that’s good for you.”

“Chuck, be serious,” Sam snapped. “It’s Thanksgiving and this is freakin’ tradition. We are going to play a game of football even if it kills us.”

“Do we play to the death?” Cas asked, alarm coloring his cheeks. “I do not wish to kill Dean. Or Gabriel.”

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and counted to ten. 

“You don’t mind killing Bobby?” Chuck asked. Sam counted to twenty.

“I will kill him if it is necessary,” Cas said with all the seriousness befitting his stuffy angelic self. “Sam, can we win if we only kill Bobby?”

“No one is killing anyone,” Sam fairly yelled. He reached down to palm the tattered football in the center of their rag-tag huddle. “Look, Cas, you hike the ball to me and I’ll run it. Chuck, just… stay out of the way.”

“I like that plan,” Chuck nodded and the green on his face paled to a nice sea foam color.

As the teams faced off, Cas leaned in close to Sam and asked: “What is a hike?”

“Wait, wait,” Sam stepped away from the line and motioned for a time out.

“Maybe you should leave the football for the real men,” Dean taunted. “I think your old pom-poms are in the car, Samantha.”

Sam flipped off his brother and pushed Cas forward, bending him forcibly at the waist. He squatted down next to Cas’ head and planted the ball between his hands on the ground. “Okay,” he said in a patiently strained voice. “You say ‘one-two-twenty-eight- HIKE’ and then throw the ball to me from between your legs. That’s a hike.”

“Okay,” Cas grasped the ball in both of his hands. “Onetwotwentyeighthike.”

He threw the ball between his legs with as much force as he could summon. It hit Sam in the solar plexus with an almighty _whump_ and Sam’s breath escaped with an almighty _whoosh-ugh_. Chuck took off running toward the tree line as Dean and Bobby rushed forward, aiming for Sam.

Cas stood up and faced Gabriel, who was grinning like a madman. 

“What do I do next?” Cas asked his brother.

“Just stand there,” Gabriel said. He looked over his shoulder at Chuck’s retreating form. “I’m going to go scare the bejesus out of our friendly neighborhood prophet.”

Cas turned to watch Sam gasping for air and trying to out maneuver his brother and Bobby. He feinted left, but Dean was there with his hands out. He dodged right, but Bobby was there, invading his personal space. With a frustrated sound, he tossed the ball to Cas.

Cas caught it without thinking.

“Run, Cas!” Sam yelled and pointed to a hastily erected goal post, fashioned from two shovels and two plaid shirts. 

Cas, being the biddable sort, ran. He was unsure what to do with the ball, but he didn’t have time to put it down. Sam had sounded extremely pressed for him to run, so he held it straight out in front of his body. He used a bit of his grace and found himself beyond the shovels in three seconds flat.

“Hell yeah!” Sam crowed from the bottom of a Bobby-Dean-Sam pile of bodies. “Touchdown!”

Dean stood up and turned to gape at Cas, still standing with the ball held awkwardly in his hands. Bobby got to his feet with a groan and then he swore colorfully.

Chuck screamed and ran back toward Sam, Gabriel hot on his tail.

“I ran,” Cas called out. “What do I do now?”

“Spike the ball,” Sam said as he jogged toward the goalpost. He mimed throwing the ball to the ground. “And then do your touchdown dance.”

Cas shrugged and threw the ball to the ground (where it made a nice two foot deep tunnel in the grass). He looked back at Sam, who pantomimed a silly dance with his fingers in the air and his legs jerking as if he had lost control of them.

Cas tilted his head for a moment, studying the ritual before him. Humans, he thought, are fascinating.

And then, he tried to mimic Sam’s dance. With his pointer fingers in the air, he jabbed his arms up and down. His trench coat swung madly around his body, the belt slapping against his waist as he jogged in place. Cas, being ever attentive to detail, rearranged his face in a wide-mouth, tongue-lolling smile.

“Woo-woo!” he cheered, struck by a moment of inspiration. “I touched it down! I touched the ball down!”

Sam stopped his dance and just watched as Cas kept dancing. It looked like that rhythm had definitely got him. He glanced at Dean who had come to stand beside him with an open mouth and wide eyes.

“We are playing ball with our feet,” Cas continued, his deep voice pitching higher. He dragged a leg through the grass and swiveled his hips. “Do the stinky leg… do the stinky leg… oh yeah!”

Dean’s lips twitched. His eyes crinkled and finally closed. A hysterical rumble built deep in the pits of his stomach and erupted, shooting up and out of his mouth. It wasn’t a chuckle, it wasn’t a giggle, it wasn’t even really a _laugh_. It was a guffaw. He threw his head back and let it take him over. The image of Cas doing the “stinky leg” played on the reel behind his eyelids. Tears pooled at the crease of his eyes and he crossed his arms across his stomach, where the muscles spasmed with the force of his laughter.

“Dude,” Sam planted a hand on his brother’s shoulder. “You okay?”

“The stinky leg!” Dean gasped, forcing his eyes to open. That was a mistake. He caught sight of Cas, frozen mid-stinky leg, and fell over, stomping his feet on the ground as he howled. 

“Did I do it wrongly?” Cas asked quietly. He stood at Sam’s side, looking down at Dean as he laughed. “I can try it again.”

“Cas,” Sam grinned at the angel. “I will pay you a thousand dollars to try it again.”

“I’ve got a thousand on that, too,” Bobby said, staring in wonder at Dean rolling in the grass. “Hell, make it two thousand.”

“I think I have thirty-eight fifty in my checking account,” Chuck said. A truce had been called between the angel and prophet; the true fun was in watching Dean lose his mind.

“You can have my favorite Casa Erotica DVD,” Gabriel offered.

“Okay,” Cas nodded, his face screwed up in determination. “I will go to the shovel posts and try again. I know of something called the Macarena. Will that be acceptable?”

From the ground, Dean made an unnatural gurgling sound and pounded the earth beneath his fists. His forehead was creased between his eyebrows and the small wrinkles at the corner of his eyes were deep and dedicated to his laughter.

“Yes,” Sam said, watching in amazement as his brother turned a violent shade of purple. “I think the Macarena should about do it.”


End file.
